


The Commoner And The Scribe

by gala_apples



Series: JRA 'verse [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Arthritis, Disabled Character, Homophobia, M/M, Underage Drinking, brothers watching porn together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob thinks that the ability to put up with the friends he has is a more unique characteristic of his than his Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. Fifty thousand kids in the States have JRA, only a few could handle Mikey’s sluttiness, Gerard’s basement creeperiness, and Frank’s stupid refusal to admit his crush on Gerard. (Ray is surprisingly normal). But while he gets no help dealing with his friends, a few accommodations have to be made for his disease. Someone copying class notes is one of them, and when it turns out that Frank’s writing could be more legible if he did it with his feet, Brendon Urie steps in. JRA impedes a lot of things in his life, but falling in love isn’t one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Commoner And The Scribe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2011 Bandom Big Bang Wave Two. Masterpost containing links to art and mix is [here](http://gala-apples.livejournal.com/323766.html).

Last year Bob’s educational life was easy. Last year Jepha was in five of his six classes, and the last was culinary arts. That was lucky on two accounts; the first being Mrs Christopherson didn’t demand notes, just handed out recipes, and the second being having a perfectly legit reason as to why he couldn’t do all the tedious shit like stirring batter.

Mom says -disturbingly frequently, actually- that with every rainstorm comes a garden. Bob prefers his version; with every mandatory class comes a slacker loophole. They can be found everywhere. He and Mikey have a deal with math homework, they each do half then trade. Sometimes webcam photos come into play, if work has to be shown. Ray gets out of gym class if he ‘forgets’ his change of clothes because the one sized is forced onto all set has shorts that make Ray look like he’s in a porno. And before Gerard graduated he pretended to care about animals, culminating in a crying fit, all in order to get out of dissecting animals. Bob can understand that too, he’s got bio this semester.

This year though, shit is different. He and Jepha only share one class, and it wouldn’t matter if they had all six together and Jepha lived in his locker because there was that whole falling out thing. Bob missed most of it while he was visiting his grandma in Chicago. But when he got back it was pretty clear he had to pick a side, and he picked Waybros, with a side of Iero and Torosaurus. It’s still unknown if it was the right decision from an issue based standpoint, considering he still doesn’t know what the drama was about. If he had to guess, he’d say something happened between Gee and Bert. Quinn wouldn’t have gotten half as furious and insistent on shunning on Dan or Brandon’s behalf. Of course Mikey was on Gee’s side, being brothers, and Frank needing to be with Gerard isn’t a surprise either. But he loves his guys, even if those are words that will never pass his lips, no matter how drunk, stoned, sleep deprived, or male PMSing he is. So he’s pretty satisfied with the decision, even if he knows if he ever met Quinn in a dark alley he’d be clubbed to death.

Unspoken love or not, he still wants to take a staplegun to Frank. Sitting in the back of Ray’s car -now on it’s third Toro son, and you can tell- he glances at the pages Frank is clipping into his binder. It looks like his pen leaked all over the lined paper.

“What’s that?”

Mikey swivels in the passenger seat so he can see whatever spectacle he thinks is occurring. “What’s what?”

Frank snorts. “What do you mean ‘what’s that’? They’re your notes Bryar, what the fuck do you think they are?” He closes the rings and tosses the binder back onto Bob’s lap. Bob flips the cover open and attempts to read the ‘notes’.

“You have, like, the worst handwriting in the world.”

Frank doesn’t tell him he’s ungrateful douchebag. Maybe a few years ago he would have, but Bob tend to be pissy when people tell him to be thankful for his JRA. There’s a difference between _this sucks but let’s try to look at the shit that sucks less_ and _you’re so lucky you don’t have to play volleyball or write your own tests_ , and those that think the latter need to be driven over with a steamroller.

“Yeah, well you try writing two sets of notes before the end of each class.” Which, on the whole, is only a slightly less douchy comment, because if Bob _could_ write his own notes he fucking would with no hesitation. But on the other hand there has to be a line between calling people out on saying stupid shit and being overly sensitive and making every comment said about his disease. Whiners don’t make friends, he learned that in Chicago. At least not ones other than those that want to coddle you and be your mommy.

“Okay, given for some messiness. But I could do a better job if my OT gave me one of those headbands quadriplegics get with a pen attached.”

“Suck a dick, Bryar.”

Bob peers closer to the notes. “Dude, are these from Spanish class? How the fuck am I supposed to know how to pronounce shit when I can only read four letters from this entire line?”

Mikey snorts. Easy for him, the fucker. He’s taking French, and he doesn’t have to read Frank’s shitty handwriting while learning what ‘volez vouz chocher avec moi’ means.

“Seriously, if I fail this class I am putting my boot up your ass.”

“You don’t wear boots.”

Well no shit, shoelaces are hardly his friends. “I’ll put _Mikey’s_ boot up our ass.” It’s a suitable threat. They’re chunky platform boots, not like he needs the height.

***

Bob manages about a week before he can’t take it anymore. He thinks about the situation for a few minutes on the weekend before deciding Frank won’t be offended by the ‘thanks but no thanks’. It fact, he’ll probably be relieved. Frank’s doing this because Bob asked him to, because Bob needed him to. Any of them would have done it, just like Bob would do whatever for the Ways or Frank or Ray. Luckily, there are other ways he can problem-solve this. Namely Mrs Gordon. So once he gets dropped off and is done leaning in the open window and explaining how to get back home, he goes straight for the guidance counsellor’s office.

The first session Bob ever had with her was while he was still in eighth grade. Just like kids in daycare get school readiness lessons, the junior high had its part in trying to make sure their students wouldn’t fail miserably at high school life. Part of that was bussing the entire grade to the high schools in the area to give them the chance to see what would be the best fit. Most of the kids just looked at curriculum and how new the computers were, and what the caf served. Bob had other considerations.

The man at Huron High School wore a bow tie and a massive grin. The woman at Kentucky had a power suit with custom dyed shoes and a gold broach. He hadn’t had a chance to deconstruct Mrs Gordon’s outfit. The moment he sat down she started talking and the words were enough to jar him. “You have the right to call bullshit.”

Bob had experienced two peppy, well written ‘we will accommodate your every need’ speeches that week. Like the high schools were a freakin’ hotel or something and all he needed was another towel. Like he could actually believe or trust such sickening optimism. She was a striking difference.

Between the refreshing attitude, the fact that Mikey was going, and that his older brother and his few friends were already there it made Jefferson easily the best choice. There was probably something about academics too, or something else university application based he used to sell it to his mom, he can’t remember anymore. And yeah they turned out to be not very accommodating, no notes prepared for him -apparently powerpoint print-offs don’t happen until college- and he still has to take gym even though he can’t do about half of it. But when they tried to put him in Special Ed, he called bullshit and Mrs Gordon listened. He trusts her, as much as he trusts his OT. He always listens, even if the best he can give is rolled eyes.

“If Frank is my scribe for one more day I’m going to take a drill to his eyes.” The words are out of his mouth before he’s even slumping into the chair facing her. He is not the type to get weepy and pleading around therapists.

“Bob Bryar, you couldn’t hold a drill.” She says placidly, mention of violence washing over her.

“That’s not a very guidance counsellory thing to say.” She’s supposed to accentuate what he can do, not focus on what he can’t.

It’s always a bit off-putting to see a woman in her forties roll her eyes. In a good way, though. “You and I both know you’d resent me if I babied you.”

It’s true, but Bob tends to not let adults know when they happen to be right. It generally makes them cocky. He settles for a non-committal noise.

“Does he or she need to be in all your classes?”

Bob shrugs. “I guess not? As long as they can finish double copying by the end of class, or drop them off with you. I don’t want to track down six people a day.”

She’s not even looking at him anymore, instead facing the computer. It’s an old thing, the monitor is a massive white cube instead of a flatscreen. “The question was a bit premature, really. There’s one teen in five of your classes.”

“Not Jepha or Quinn or Bert.” He’s pretty sure Quinn would rather stab him with a pen then write for him.

“No. Though don’t think we’re not coming straight back to that question in a minute.” Bob snorts, he knows better. “He’s actually in four of the same periods as you, do you recognise Brendon Urie?”

“Uh?”

“That would be a no then. I’ll call him down, and whether it works or not I’ll find you someone else. Believe it or not, some people are rather fond of Frank Iero and would like him intact.”

Yeah, and Bob is one of them. Just not when he’s staring at his notes trying to figure out what the fuck they say.

Five minutes into biology Brendon is called to the office. The boy who stands is wearing a green and pink striped shirt, and untorn jeans. He practically skips towards the door. Frank starts snickering, the asshole. Bob can see why, but he’s not worried yet. Brendon’s not the most flamboyant guy he’s ever seen, and even if he was, Bob can get along with flamboyant. It’s not like they have to be best friends.

He comes back a few minutes later, smiling. At the end of the period he dashes over to Bob’s desk, brandishing papers. “I only had gel pen, I hope you don’t mind. It helps me distinguish between classes.”

“No separators?” Frank’s not really being a douche, Bob can tell. He’s playing devil’s advocate because he wants Brendon to talk more.

Brendon shrugs. “I had these awesome Lisa Frank binder folders, but Ryan told me to stop being a fag. So yeah, gel it’ll be. Unless you wanna lend me a Bic or something.”

Bob looks at the papers. The writing is entirely legible, despite it being hunter green. It’s not even dashes for new lines and lists, Brendon’s drawn bullets. “Looks fine to me.”

“Great. See you next class.” With that Brendon bounds out. Frank starts snickering again, but Bob thinks it’s hardly fair. Someone that literally climbs their taller friends doesn’t have the right to rag on others for being hyper.

***

Brendon’s not there at roll call. Bob swears under his breath and looks around the class for another option. It’s not like it never happened with Jepha last year. Bert’s repeating senior year because Jefferson has a rule that sixteen plus absences means automatic failure, not because he’s stupid. Skipping is something you only do by yourself if you’re a high achiever, and you think you can better utilize your time, which meant that Jepha and Quinn and Dan spent a few periods a week out of class.

Any other day he’d be fine, he’d just succumb to the torture of reading Frank’s notes. Unfortunately for him, Frank is absent, ‘sick’. What’s really going on is Frank is allowed to sleep in on his birthday, whether it’s a school day or not. Bob expects to first see him at lunch, or fourth period if he begs for fast food.

He has three options at this point. He could wait until the end of class, and see if he could come back at the end of the day to borrow the entire reel of overhead transparency. It’s a fucking bitch to photocopy. It always comes out blurry and half the time he drops the roll, which is akin to dropping open paper towels down a flight of stairs. Except slipperier. Option two is raising his hand, and making himself a pity case. If he points out that his usual note taker is absent, and he needs someone else to help, he’ll probably only get one comment of _why can’t you do it yourself_ , to which Bob will pleasantly not reply _because I’m crippled, you fucking asshole_ , since a lot of people seem offended by the word. It’s possible he won’t even have to wait for a volunteer, that Mr Allen will just appoint someone.

Bob goes with the option that has the least amount of personal objection. The first two are annoying in their own, special ways, the third isn’t as bad. He just twists on his stool and asks the girl behind him if she can write two sets of notes. Face to face with a handicapped person asking for help, most people are horrified at the idea of saying no.

Of course, it all turns out to not matter when Brendon comes in about five minutes late. It’s hard to stay mad though, knowing what the end of school brings. Namely, Frank turning seventeen.

There are three distinct layers of supervision to a Frank Iero birthday party. Bob doesn’t know how things worked when Frank was a kid. By the time Bob met him they were already a bit old for trick or treating and so it was just a sleepover. Or whatever the manlier equivalent is, although they paint their nails and play truth or dare, so the manliness is pretty much lacking.

The first section of the night belongs to Frank’s Grandma and Grandpa. The four of them follow Frank home after school and Grandma and Grandpa Iero are already there. It’s not the only time Bob sees them, he comes over and sees them at least once a month. Most people probably wouldn’t want to hang out with the elderly, but Bob can’t lie, it’s a great few hours. Frank’s grandma likes to tell stories about his past. It would suck if it was him, but since it’s Frank it’s hilarious. Some of them are old, classic, told often. Sometimes they get something new and enlightening.

“I remember when he only knew you, Mikey. He found out you were going to Jefferson and he was destined to go to the Catholic private school that our entire lineage has gone to. But history wasn’t enough for him, o’ course. Frank doesn’t put much stock in tradition. So the dear boy sent the principal an email explaining how much properly damage would occur if he attended, possibly to the point of pipe bombs in abandoned areas. He was grounded the entire summer.”

Bob has no trouble believing this.

“Yeah, but the principal refused admission, so I still won.” Bob also has no trouble believing that that’s Frank’s true opinion, that he’s not just acting big in front of others. Frank would totally consider arrestable threats and being grounded for two and a half months winning. And it makes sense as to why he didn’t meet Frank until September, even though Mikey talked about him the whole summer.

When Bob first starting coming to the Iero’s, Grandpa and Grandma Iero used to stay for dinner. Now they don’t, speaking of how horrible the tofurkey Frank demands is. Every month Bob becomes more convinced Frank doesn’t care about the cows, just needs a safe way to chase them out before they start talking about potty training.

After they leave it’s Mrs Iero’s domain. She bakes like a fiend. Bob’s mom gets him a generic cake from the bakery at the grocery store beside her work in December. Frank gets two different kinds of cake; classic chocolate, and something unique. This year it’s lemon meringue. There’s also entire platters of cookies. It’s kind of insane. It’s not like she’s baking them for the trick or treaters and she has left overs. For one thing, in this day and age no parent carting around a eight year old would let them take a baked cookie for fear of razor blades or arsenic. For another, they’re all Frank personalized; stamped into a doughnut shape with CD titles written in icing.

Best of all, there is always a jack-o-lantern pinata. The first year she had a broom handle and Bob couldn’t grip it. Mrs Iero apologised about a dozen times, and bought a baseball bat before Christmas and the tree pinata. He can’t strike very hard, he’ll never be the one to break it open, but hitting giant tissue papered things tends to be its own reward.

After presents the evening is theirs, freedom given to them by Mr Iero keeping Mrs Iero away from the basement. He’s supposed to watch them but he’s really a co-conspirator. Every year he supplies them with things they’re too young to get, namely alcohol, porn, cigarettes, and fireworks. They don’t use them in that order though.

This year they thank him for the fireworks, but don’t bother to go outside. Considering their gender, they have an impressively low tolerance for booming noises. Bob’s kind of partial, but the others don’t care, except Frank. Probably he’ll come over next week some time -maybe on Thursday, that’s when Mikey and Gerard go to Universe for their Magic tourney- and they’ll set them off then. Bob doesn’t see the point in trying to beg everyone to go into the back yard when they have great goings on where they are.

Tonight they’re playing an awesome version of Monopoly where you can choose to get paid in money or shots. Bob’s the cannon, as he has been since the day he was born. They take turns moving his piece and putting down his houses, while Mikey’s officially his money counter, but it’s not a pity thing. It’s barely even a JRA thing. Sitting around the ottoman it’s hard for anyone to reach the opposite side, whoever’s closest moves the pieces. Neither is he the only one with a money aide. Gerard, who somehow has a ton of properties and is drunk enough to mean they’ve been landed on, can barely count his money so Frank’s helping him out.

They have Risk in reserve, though Bob doubts they’ll need it. The rules are simple and meant to get them drunk rapidly; if any men get killed you have to sip a mixed drink. Bob’s not sad they’re going to skip it, it’s not a great drunk game anyway. The movement of men requires so much dexterity that even those that originally have it have trouble.

They’re so gone Ray barely gloats when he wins. Which means it’s time for the porn. It’s bi porn, mostly two guy threesomes. It works best for them. Ray gets girls, Bob gets boys, Mikey and Gee blatantly like both, and Frank can lie about what he likes because he’s a stupid bastard. It’s not Mr Iero’s magazines, just stuff downloaded and hidden in randomly titled files on the basement computer. If Bob could say it without offending anyone or making it weirder, he sort of thinks Mr Iero has weird tastes. If he did like girls, it wouldn’t be Asians with bleach blond hair and blue iris contacts.

It’s not like Bob goes cross-eyed and suddenly sees Brendon’s face on the guy getting rimmed. He’s drunk, not obsessed or delusional. But he can’t help but think that Brendon would be good in bed. In the almost two months since he met him, Brendon hasn’t given any sign of actually being gay. Still, it would be awesome if Brendon would suck his cock. Or anyone, really. Bob’s not picky. Sex with anyone would be fantastic.

***

Bob is of the opinion that what you like in bed is what you like in bed and there’s no reason to come down on people for their likes. The obvious exception being if the activity is actually wrong. Groping sleeping people is not okay, nor is anything else that messes with consent. Cutting off limbs is equally bad, sex shouldn’t involve dismemberment. And wanting little kids is straight up evil. But if it’s just something like DP, or pissing, or whipping, then whatever. Why not go for it?

In fact, he’s pretty sure everyone’s life would be easier if Gerard took some kinky initiative and just tied up Frank and didn’t listen to his bullshit. Which, okay, from the outside might appear kind of rape-like. But two days ago Grandma Iero asked Frank if he’d been having safe sex because getting diseases is bad, not that I think you really have something, Gerard. When an eighty year old notices, it’s pretty fucking clear everyone knows they’re destined. Except Frank, somehow.

But the point is that while Bob doesn’t give a crap if some people like pain during sex, he doesn’t. Which, sad to say, is how shit would go down if he jerked off the way the average guy does. He can’t grip a pen or a baking spoon, his stupid fingers won’t just randomly decide to be pain free when he wants to grab his dick. Luckily there are other methods available.

It’s entirely possible his bed is the most comfortable of anyone in the city. It should be, considering how long he spends each day trying to sleep off the fatigue that comes with being diseased. Ray’s bed is rock hard, you can feel the springs in Mikey’s, and at least four days of the week Bert slept on a inflatable pool mattress at Quinn’s. If Bob was up for shitty metaphors, he’d say his was like laying on a cloud. The pillow top of the mattress is like half a foot thick and then there’s the actual pillows; two to rest his head on and a body pillow resting against the wall.

Presumably the body pillow was bought to keep him from waking up against cold drywall. When Bob was twelve it got repurposed as a masturbatory aid. It had been the most awkward conversation he’s ever had with his occupational therapist. Thankfully Akiro was made out of sterner stuff; she’d just shrugged, told him it wasn’t the sort of thing he’d learn in sex ed, and ignored his blush. Bob had been awkwardly but incredibly grateful for it.

 

What Bob does is more humping than jerking off. He pulls the pillow between his legs and ruts against it. Aside from that, it’s basically the same experience. He still thinks about fucking someone, usually a thinner brunet. He still has to muffle his grunts so nothing leaks between the wall, his mom is in the next room over. And he still comes, staining yet another patch of fabric. At one point Bob thought he was alone in having trouble cleaning up afterwards. Then he made the mistake of taking Gerard up on his offer of sharing his bed with Mikey so Bob could have one to himself during a rare sleepover. Gerard’s sheets practically flaked when Bob touched them.

Bob mentally flips through a selection of guys before landing on Brendon. He can’t help but wonder if Mikey’s fucked him. Mikey’s fucked a lot of people. Not Gene Simmons levels of a lot, but a lot for a high schooler. College will probably be a great experience for Mikeyway. Hopefully it’ll be good for him too. Hopefully he’ll find some hot skinny guy that will let Bob fuck him all the time.

He presses his mouth against the edge of the pillow as he pants. It’s not the best soundproofing material, but it’s not like Bob can get sound studio foam egg carton stuff for the walls. His hips buck forward more and more frantically as he gets closer to coming. Even with his eyes closed it’s not like what he imagines fucking someone would feel like. It’s too soft. Unless he was fucking a girl’s boobs, but the thought is enough to make him back down from the edge, and any prolonged thought will probably make him soft again, so he redirects his brain as quick as he can. He’s not into orgasm denial either, so rutting his way to the end only to turn himself off would just be cruel.

***

When Bob was twelve, his Health and Diversity class teacher liked to use examples. Each class -once a week, on Wednesdays- she’d have something new. The first class had opened with everyone having to wear glasses smeared with Vaseline to make everyone understand the phrase ‘four eyes’ wasn’t kind. Which was ridiculous because they weren’t eight and that wasn’t a proper diss anymore, and anyway the entire point of a diss was that it wasn’t kind. After those first forty five minutes Bob hadn’t had much hope for the rest of the year.

It wasn’t until the third week that things got personal. She made everyone rank the class from least gay to most gay to show that people’s perceptions were different, then asked Ryan -the only out teen in seventh grade- what he thought. Ryan’s answer of ‘everyone is a little gay, my email is TravisBarkerRocks at hotmail dot com’ wasn’t exactly what she’d wanted.

For a time Bob thought the worst was taking turns with the sumo suit to simulate being fat. No one in their junior high was that fat, and even if they had someone that big, giving teenage boys an excuse to waddle and wrestle wouldn’t help them. Then Bob came in late to one class, and twenty nine desks of teenagers had some of their fingers masking taped together because they were being him. Having just come from OT he wasn’t really in the mood.

Even though it’s not a very accurate example -for one, masking tape doesn’t provide any pain, and with JRA there’s a _lot_ \- Bob would still like to try the exercise with Brendon. He doesn’t seem to understand that this isn’t a joke for Bob, that he needs Brendon, that he _can’t_ write his own notes. He could type them, if he was part of some charity organization that handed out laptops. But his mom doesn’t get paid much, and Bob judges gas or electricity or his meds more important than a computer that Frank or once upon a time Bert would have accidentally broken anyway.

Brendon’s been late to biology every day this week. It would be different if English was first period, the first fifteen minutes is silent reading. Or even math, where it’s just practicing and hoping Mikey got his half of the assignment right. But it’s not. It’s biology, which means definitions and examples and other things that need to be written out. Bob’s tried tape recorders in earlier grades, but he retains nothing spoken. Which means he needs to talk to Brendon about it. He’s not a total narc, he’ll talk to Brendon before he brings Mrs Gordon in.

He waits until Frank goes up to the front desk for the worm and the pins along with half the class to sneak up a row to sit beside Brendon. It’s probably for the best anyway, when they have to dissect together it tends to be a disaster. Bob can’t really hold the knife, never mind make super-accurate cuts. Frank gets nauseous cutting into once living creatures, but you need to have a meeting between Mr Wagner and yourself and parents before Mr Wagner gives alternate options, and Mrs Iero isn’t accommodating like how Mrs Way was. If they each have a partner that can do the work, maybe they won’t fail the lab.

“Oh, hey Bob. You wanna be my partner, I guess?”

“Yeah. If it’s cool. Frank is sort of really bad at this kinda thing.”

“I really don’t think MacKensie desperately wants to be my lab buddy. He won’t even let me call him by his first name. It’s totally fine.” Brendon smiles at the end, belying the slightly depressing words. He’s got a good smile. Really good. So Bob maybe wants to come on Brendon’s face, a little. As long as he doesn’t say it out loud it won’t make things awkward.

Still, lusty thoughts or not, he switched places for a reason. He jokingly asks “do you not have an alarm clock? You know you can program your cell, right?”

Brendon looks away for a second, only to be startled when Frank slams their tray and worm in front of Bob. Frank’s scowling, so Bob scowls back. Frank’ll realise it’s for the best when they make it to the end of the period without Bob feeling guilty and irritated that he can’t make the cuts because Frank looks like he’s vomiting into his mouth.

Finally Brendon shrugs. “I can't get from my apartment to school on a bus on time. I’m either five minutes late, or an hour and a half early. I talked to the guidance counselor, Wagner can't give me detention for it. Maybe you should get someone else to do your notes though? I’m good for the others, still.”

Bob’s really not sure what Brendon means by that. He shouldn’t mean _his_ apartment, they're seventeen. But it really didn’t sound like the kind of my that means ‘belongs to parents’, like my house, or my car. Bob’s not a gossip though, and he doesn’t know Brendon well enough to start asking questions. So he just gestures to the print off diagram Wagner passed out at the beginning of class and asks what he thinks the first blank space is supposed to be. Apparently even worms have a ton of organs.

***

Bob hates being nosy. In theory, people know what they’re supposed to, and prying only ups the chances for upset. He manages to last a solid week before breaking down and deciding he needs to know. The best person to go to for knowledge is Mikey. In order to ask Mikey, he needs to get his attention. So he angles his body properly and give him a good kick under the caf table.

Mikey’s glare bounces from Ray to Frank before finally landing on Bob. “What.”

“What what?”

“Fuck off!”

He could play this game for a while. Doing something and denying doing it is a staple of friendship. But he’d rather just know. “Does Brendon Urie have his own apartment?”

Mikey shrugs. “I dunno if Brendon has a party house. I’ll ask.”

Bob isn’t surprised when Mikey pulls out his phone instead of crossing the cafeteria. Most people express themselves with words and body language. Mikey uses words and thumbs. Five minutes and a flurry of texts later Mikey says “Gabe says that Pete says that Ryan says that Brendon got kicked out.”

So he does have his own apartment. But why? He's sometimes a shit, and his mom doesn't kick him out. And if unobserved Frank at home is anything like he is when around his friends, he should totally be kicked out a hundred times over. Even Bert, who _is_ kicked out on a monthly to weekly basis is always back overnight. To be out of the house for good Brendon must have done something horrible, and he really doesn’t seem like a horrible person. “The hell? Why?”

Mikey texts for a minute then holds out his phone. “Here.”

Fuck, he hates talking on the phone. But at least the person on the other end seems supremely uninterested when he says hello. If the guy was any less interested in things he'd be in a coma.

“Brendon got kicked out? Why?”

Seriously, it better not get out that it's him that asked. On closer inspection, it really seems stalkery. Oh well. He’s already asked the question. Hanging up before an answer wouldn’t make him any less stalkery, it would just make him clueless.

The guy sighs. “Multiple choice. A, he likes rock music. B, he doesn't believe in God. C, he jerks off. D, he likes guys. E, he doesn't respect his parents. Circle whichever one makes you happy. Can you tell Mikey I want my belt back? I think it's in his car.”

He hangs up before Bob can say anything, leaving him to pass on the message. Mikey shakes his head. “William’s missing his too. They probably took each others. Gimme my phone so I can text them.”

Bob often wonders what it would be like to be Mikey, skinny and capable and painless and sexually really fucking active. But Mikey pops pills at lunch too, and at least Bob’s aren’t to stop himself from seeing shit or trying to off himself. He’s probably better off as he is, the grass being full of flesh eating bugs on the other side.

Fourth period is media and advertising, which Brendon doesn’t take, and fifth is math with Mikey and Frank, which Brendon has fourth period. But sixth is ancient civilizations, and even though he puts his bag down on the desk beside Ray’s, he heads to the front of the room where Brendon’s got two piles of looseleaf and a few coloured pens.

“Oh, hey. I was just gonna give you both at the end of class, but if you want math’s examples now- Really, you’d think he could just print it out for you. I mean really, like-”

Brendon is like Gerard in that sometimes you just have to interrupt, otherwise you’ll never get your piece said. “You want me to pick you up before school?”

Brendon's hands still in the middle of opening the rings of his binder. “What?”

Bob shrugs. “Well then we both win. I don't fail biology from spotty notes, and you don't have to take the shitty bus.” It makes sense to him, and Bob would like to think he’s a good enough guy that he’d offer even if he didn’t have a pathetic unrequited lust for him.

Brendon hesitates for maybe a half second before breaking into a smile. “That would be great.”

Bob watches Brendon scribble on a torn piece of paper then wince when he realises Bob can’t pluck it from his hand. Brendon’s pretty quick on his feet, he just walks back three rows and puts it in the pocket of his binder. Bob will have to get his mom to fish it out later, but better than Brendon just telling him and him forgetting by the morning. “I’ll be there at eight thirty.”

“Ohh, sleeping in. Lovely.” Bob would bet money Brendon’s the only teenager in the school that would say lovely unsarcastically. Beside Ray Frank is snickering, but it just makes Bob smile.

***

Bob never thought he’d say it, but he misses kickball. It’s one of the few sports he can do, all of his JRA crap being with his fingers and wrists. Last year they played a lot, a group of ten friends allowed for two small teams. That’s not possible now.

Aside from being able to please doctors with the whole staying healthy and physically active thing, kickball was a good stress reliever. Once Gerard called it ‘the poor or carded man’s version of a bottle of Jack Daniels’, and Bob never saw much wrong with the assessment. Lou being a bastard? Kickball. Bert getting kicked out again over religious issues? Kickball. Mikey having to wait for STI results? Kickball.

Signing on to MSN is nowhere near the same as calling the guys and arranging a meeting at the community club near Dan’s house if it isn’t baseball season, or the parking lot near the Ways if it is. At this point though, it’s pretty much the only option left. He couldn’t stop thinking about Brendon before his nap, and waking up it’s still on his mind.

A good chunk of his list is online. At least half the people he doesn’t remember adding, who they are or why he cared. Bob only has a second to start scrolling before someone pops up in orange.

Seven AM Junkie: hey. sup? good dreams?

Mikey always asks, Bob never has anything interesting to report.

Wristless Superhero: nope

Bob hesitates with his fingers over the keyboard, then sighs and starts typing. Mikey's the best possible person to talk about this kind of shit with.

Wristless Superhero: on the phone with ryan today, he gave me a bunch of options for why brendon maybe got kicked out. option d was brendon being gay. have you had sex with him?

Seven AM Junkie: *snorts* i haven't fucked every gay guy in jersey

Before Bob can point out that that's not no, Mikey starts typing again.

Seven AM Junkie: haven't had sex with him. why do you care

Wristless Superhero: dumbass. why do you think

Seven AM Junkie: you can't just ask if he's gay?

Wristless Superhero: about half the guys in jefferson would try to kick my ass for insinuating shit

Seven AM Junkie: from what i've seen of brendon urie he couldn't kick a toddlers ass  
Seven AM Junkie: but then frank's tiny and he's scrappy as fuck, so

Wristless Superhero: what if brendon's parents just really really love funk music and brendon hates it with all his soul?  
Wristless Superhero: and they had an epic fight about funk?  
Wristless Superhero: (differences in music was another option from ryan)

Seven AM Junkie: you're a idiot

Bob glares at the screen. Mikey's an asshole. He clicks to the buddy list and checks. Frank's on, but away. Knowing Frank that means he's there but jerking off. Frank can take three minutes from his busy evening of pretending to not come to the image of Gee to help him. Bob says hey and waits for an answer before copy pasting his conversation to Frank.

I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: :-P :-P :-P  
I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: also damn straight i'm scrappy.

Christ. God only knows what he was thinking. Like Frank could ever be helpful.

Wristless Superhero: EMOTICONS ARE NOT HELPFUL ADVICE, FUCKFACE.

I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: dont use caps on the internet. it sounds like your yelling  
I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: *snickers*

Wristless Superhero: if I was there I would be yelling  
Wristless Superhero: AT YOU  
Wristless Superhero: hence the caps  
Wristless Superhero: warranted

Bob's about to flip back to Mikey when his name flashes orange. He flips over to see a row of messages.

Seven AM Junkie: hogod  
Seven AM Junkie: i think gabe let himself in  
Seven AM Junkie: i think he's hitting on g  
Seven AM Junkie: fuck

Bob wants to tell him to take pictures because that shit _has_ to be funny, but he can practically see Mikey sprinting downstairs through his computer screen. There's no way Mikey would leave Gerard alone with Gabe to be felt up. He flips back to Frank and starts to type out a question about what Frank thinks he should do about Brendon. Frank says something first. Bob backspaces his enquiry away when he reads it.

I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: you think gerard’s gonna get a girlfriend when he goes to college?

Bob doesn’t make a habit of facepalming, but seriously. Frank needs to come to his goddamn senses already, before he drives all his friends to the brink of insanity.

Wristless Superhero: why do you care?

Frank’s pretty quick in replying.

I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: i don’t.

Wristless Superhero: then why’d you ask?

Frank doesn’t reply for long enough that Bob starts a new conversation. Part of being a good friend is knowing when to bother someone and when to shut the hell up and lay off.

Wristless Superhero: you ever miss kickball?

***

It’s one of God’s cosmic jokes that Bob is freakin’ excellent with directions and areas of town when probably he’ll never be able to drive. Maybe not as hilarious as having to keep a buzz cut when he’d rather awesome Norse god viking hair. Something that rivals Ray’s Metallica hair, but with better music associated. Maybe not as funny as only being able to play Rock Band drums with his feet and still mostly failing, and other video games going even worse. Though to be fair the guys are usually pretty decent about putting their shit away when he comes over. Life is too short to have shitty friends. It’s a true cliche for everyone, but especially him; his life expectancy is ten years shorter than the average. But it’s probably still funny to some jerkoff deity.

Transportation is lame for multiple reasons. There’s the not getting to drive part of the equation, of course. Bob had an intense flare up a few days before his scheduled attempt at the practical test. He was too busy trying to convince every cell in his body to not explode from the pure agony to call the license place, and apparently that means he has an attitude. Realistically, most days are bad enough for his arms that he probably couldn’t grip the steering wheel anyway. And his fatigue hits hardest in the morning, so getting rides lets him rest instead of focus on the road. But every teenager wants to drive, so it sucks that he can’t.

The part that is more unique to his personal situation instead of JRA as a whole is that he doesn’t get to chill in the back seat listening to his iPod. His services are needed in the front seat. At least when he’s with his mom. As a senior, she’s been driving him to school for going on four years, and she still occasionally gets lost. Places they’ve only been once or twice might as well be in China. Bob first took on the job map reading right after his parents divorced, and after doing it so long he usually doesn’t need the map. She calls him her personal GPS. As far as nicknames go it’s pretty shit. If Bob was an electronic you think he could at least be a sound board. He and his friends have actually had this conversation. Mikey would be an iPod, Ray an amp, and Gerard a tablet, and if Bob actually listened to the twenty minute monologue he’d even know what kind.

“Turn left at the next light.”

“Are you sure? This doesn’t look like a neighbourhood your friends should be in.”

“Mom, come on. He’s either living in a place with a landlord that decided it was okay to rent to a seventeen possibly sixteen year old, or a place with a landlord that doesn’t care that some man or woman was setting up an apartment for a teenager and not coming back. And either way, it’s still a place Brendon has to pay for with his own paychecks.”

“Bob, are you sure he’s not a drug peddler?”

Bob snorts. “You’ll understand how stupid that question is when you see him.” He’s fully expecting the smack to the back of the head that comes a moment later.

He doesn’t know why he’s even bothering. No matter how much he warns her, if she decides to start she won’t let it go, no matter how much he begs. She’s like a pitbull. Except she drives and cooks and enjoys reading and television. So not really like a pet dog at all. But he still hopes she doesn’t decide to latch on. If she starts to lecture in front of Brendon he’ll probably feel embarrassed or ashamed or even worse, sad. Bob remembers the look on Brendon’s face during the worm autopsy, he doesn’t want to see it again.

For a shitty neighbourhood, there are more cars than Bob would have expected. There are even a few with people sitting inside. Granted they’re probably dealers or hookers. When Brendon comes out his apartment’s door, his hands are curled tightly around the straps of his backpack like he thinks someone is going to try to take it from him. Bob presses the window down button then waves at him to get his attention.

He can tell the moment Brendon spots him, he starts to smile. Bob can also tell the moment he realises Bob’s in the passenger seat, Brendon seems little shocked. He comes to a stop beside the passenger door. “Um. Hi? Is that your mom?”

“I can't hold the steering wheel, can't drive. Do you hate my mother?”

“Oh my God, what? No!”

“Get in the fucking car then.” It’s possible he’s a bit sensitive about talking to people who aren’t his friends about not being able to drive.

It wears off soon though. He can see Brendon in the rear view mirror, and he doesn’t look happy. Bob doesn’t like the idea that he’s the cause of the awkward silence. He tries to think of something nice and bland to ask. ‘What’s your favourite band’ could have any of his friends going on for an hour, never mind the fifteen minute drive.

Instead somehow what pops out is, “look, you don’t have to answer, but why don’t your friends drive you?” Bob likes Brendon, not just wants to fuck him, for as much as they’ve talked he seems pretty cool. But he can’t classify himself a friend. He’s not even an MSN friend.

Brendon shrugs. “Ryan buses, and Spencer gets rides from his mom too. She would freak out if she knew I was living alone.” In an obvious attempt to change the subject he asks “doing anything this weekend?” Bob mentally shrugs and goes with it. If he got kicked out of the house he probably wouldn’t want to talk about it either.

***

“I really hope neither of you have fruit allergies.”

From the volume Bob would guess Brendon is shouting from halfway down the sidewalk. He doesn’t open his eyes to check. Today is going to be a bad fatigue day. There is at least a fifty percent chance he’ll have to get Mrs Gordon to call his mom at work to come pick him up early. But he’s going to try. His absences don’t get counted like the other students at Jefferson, but that’s not the point. He’s going to be normal as much as he can, and that includes going to class when he doesn’t feel like it.

“Bob,” his mom hisses. She clearly wants him to answer Brendon. She tends to not accept JRA based excuses for rudeness.

It takes almost physical effort to raise his voice, and he still doesn’t open his eyes. “No. Why?”

“I had leftovers at work.” His voice sounds like he’s right against the car, and when Bob blinks Brendon’s arm is through the rolled down window. He’s holding two misshapen, oddly coloured popsicles. It’s not really a surprise they didn’t sell.

“It’s November and I can’t hold that, but thanks.”

Brendon’s face falls. A moment later Mom is smacking the side of his head. “Don’t be rude!”

“I’m not! I said thanks!” A popsicle stick is just one of many tiny objects he can’t really hold.

“Bob, sit in the back. Brendon will hold it for you.”

“Mom!” Bob doesn’t know in what universe that is a good idea, but it’s not the one that exists now.

“Mrs Bryar, it’s really no big deal. It’s not like it’s a waste of money, I didn’t buy them.”

“Bob.”

Bob knows that tone. As embarrassing as it is, letting Brendon feed him is probably the best option at this point. Explaining to the guys he got grounded for not eating a popsicle would be ridiculous. Still, it would be nice if she didn’t take her irritation at being called Mrs instead of Ms out on him.

The idea of getting out of the front seat and crawling into the back seems incredibly difficult. He ends up climbing over the cupholder of the van and half falling into the bench seat. He crashes into his shoulder, but it’s easier than trying to get the front door open and closed, and the back door sliding. Hell, half the time Mikey can’t get the sliding door working. Brendon apologizes close to his ear as he enters the back. Bob grunts. Normally he’d be excited about Brendon’s face being the closest to his that it’s ever been, but normally he’s not this fucking tired.

“I work at Smoothie Palace,” Brendon explains, deftly switching the popsicle to the other hand so he can click closed Bob’s seatbelt. “just like other food places, employees get the leftovers when customers complain we did something wrong. I’d rather work at a Pizza Hut, I wouldn’t have to buy as much food. But smoothies make good breakfasts, or popsicles for dessert. Spencer bought me a mold.”

Bob’s seen half a dozen movies where some girl sucks on a popsicle and it’s supposed to be all phallic and a massive turn on. This is not that movie, this is just fucking lame. Brendon’s not even looking at him, like _he’s_ the one with the reason or right to be embarrassed. He takes a massive bite, counter to the slurping sounds from the front seat, just to get the whole thing over with. It’s a mistake in more than one way; instant brainfreeze and he can’t swallow fast enough to tell his mom to turn left. Eventually he gets them through the twisting streets and back on target. He flops against the seat and closes his eyes. The treat can melt directly onto the upholstery for all he cares. He’s officially done eating it.

The problem with the bench seat is the back is shorter to allow the driver to see out the back window. There’s no head support. After a minute of attempting to rest the base of his skull on the top and staring straight up at the roof his neck hurts. Bob thinks about it for a second before deciding fuck it and leaning sideways. Most of the hood of Brendon’s jacket is on his shoulder, it makes for a good pillow, and his thigh is soft enough to rest his forearm on.

He wakes up for a minute when Brendon starts moving. Brendon delicately sits him back up straight, balled up jacket propping his head a little better. He wakes up a second time halfway home. “Mom?”

Entwined in the syllable is _where did Brendon go_ and _why am I not at school assuming that’s where Brendon is_ and _how the hell did you get halfway home without waking me up_. She hears it all, because she’s Mom and she can do that. “Brendon asked where we lived, he wrote street by street instructions. Not as good as you, but close. And I’m taking you home. We both know today isn’t gonna happen.”

Well, it’s not like she’s wrong. Bob closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

***

When Brendon isn’t waiting at eight thirty Bob frowns. When he doesn’t come out after five minutes Bob’s mom starts to freak out. Bob would like to reassure her that no, a crackwhore didn’t stab him to death in his sleep, but in this neighbourhood he can’t be sure.

“I’m gonna go in and get him.” Technically it should probably be her, it’s not like he could do CPR. But if there’s blood she’ll probably faint. She doesn’t like blood.

The building has a buzz code panel with all the occupants last names and first initials. The door doesn’t have a lock. It seems like an unsafe combination to Bob. Really, he shouldn’t be complaining though, because that’s what lets him run up three flights of stairs and kick at Brendon’s door. Bob hears a scraping sound and part of his panic leeches away. Whatever happened, he’s not unconscious.

The door opens, Brendon peering out the small crack, hair black with water. Bob says hi and Brendon smiles weakly before opening the door wide. Bob wipes his feet on the nasty carpeted hall and steps into the room. That’s what it is, a room. A mattress is a foot away from the kitchen cabinets, and there’s a cardboard box of clothes just out of the way of the door. Brendon catches him looking. “The deadbolt doesn’t catch, but it’s heavy enough to block it.”

A number of things tumble through his head but what comes out is “where’s the bathroom?”

“Communal. I shower at Ryan’s if his dad’s in a good mood. The sink runs pretty hot too.” He gestures to his head.

“Do your parents know this is your apartment?”

Bob doesn’t know why it comes out of his mouth. At seventeen years old he’s has almost two decades to train his mouth to censor his brain. It’s clearly the wrong thing to say. Brendon’s watered down smile disappears completely. “My sister visited once, to drop off my clothes. They know.”

Somehow that’s even worse. Apparently it’s the morning for speaking his mind, because the next thing that bursts out, at almost shouting volume, is “parents don’t treat kids like this!”

Brendon shrugs. “Some do. Sometimes you're not what they expect.”

Bob swallows the scream vibrating in his throat. “...excuse me a second. I need to go buy more cigarettes.” He only takes drags when Gee or Frank have one lit, but Brendon doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t want to go to the gas station a block over for the taste of nicotine anyway.

Brendon crosses his arms. “I'm not going to light them for you. Okay, that's kinda mean. I probably will. But you're putting your head out the window so my mattress doesn't smell.”

Bob agrees. He’d agree to anything for a chance leave the apartment. He needs to vent, and doing it in front of Brendon would probably only hurt him more. Brendon starts towelling off his hair as he takes the few steps to cross the apartment and close the door behind him. At least he has a towel, if Bob saw him drying off with an old t-shirt he’d probably combust.

He flashes five fingers at his mom for five minutes as he passes the car, but doesn’t slow down to talk. He either needs to growl or kick things, and a set of broken toes wouldn’t help his boiling frustration. The homeless guy with a bible verse written on a square of cardboard is looking at him like _he’s_ the crazy one. Even if he’d stayed in the apartment it still would have been five minutes before Brendon was ready. This way Brendon gets ready _and_ Bob doesn’t have a shouting fit.

***

Bob is eating lunch with his friends when Ryan Ross comes over. He really doesn’t look much different than he did in eighth grade. Maybe a bit taller. He's got a plastic CVS bag swinging in one hand. When he stops at their table he passes it to Mikey. “I think you left these.”

Mikey undoes the knot and looks the bag. After a second he shakes his head. “I don't wear underwear. Sorry. If they’re recent, try Alex?”

“Which one?” Bob recognises that voice. It’s the voice from the phone call a few weeks ago. Which means that Brendon’s Ryan is Ryan Ross. Fuck that’s weird. Brendon doesn’t seem slutty at all.

“Suarez. Remember, he didn’t want to bottom and suck at the same time? Or last night Mike Pedicone told me he was busy at your place when I texted him. But they’re definitely not mine.”

Frank mutters “I don’t know if that’s TMI or hilarious.”

Ryan takes the bag back from Mikey, frowning slightly. The expression deepens when he turns to Bob. “Spencer's life would really be much better if you fucked Brendon.”

The reactions around the table are predominantly non-verbal. Frank is totally cackling, the fucking asshole, and Mikey's got his vaguely interested face on. Ray’s just confused, and Bob instantly realises he didn’t actually tell Ray or Gerard. Apparently he’s a shitty, secret keeping friend.

Ryan continues, "Well, I don't care. Brendon only asks me for good porn links. Or he did before he got kicked out. Stolen wifi is shitty at the apartment, and he’s only got it when I bring my laptop, and he says that’s ‘weird’. But Spencer's the one who gets all the love and dating shit. And Brendon thinks you shit unicorns that vomit rainbows with pots of gold chocolate coins at the end, and Spencer's getting sick of it.”

It’s no shock that Mikey's texting. Bob’s not sure he wants to know who, but is hardly surprised that he is. A moment later he says “Gerard says he'll draw it.”

Frank doesn't say anything until Ryan walks away, heading across the cafeteria for where Alex Suarez is sitting with Ryland and his other friends. “You think if I watch him he'll just wander around to all the people he's screwed asking if it's theirs?”

Mikey smirks. “Why? You gonna be next in line?”

“I’m straight, motherfucker!”

“Yeah, that's why you grope my brother constantly.”

“It's funny as fuck to see him squirm.” Even though half the time Gerard squeals and or starts hysterically laughing -he’s one of the most ticklish people Bob’s ever met- it’s a weak excuse. No one calls him on it though.

“You definitely have to come over after school today.” It’s never a matter of if he wants to, it’s always if he can. You’d think they’d know by now.

“Seriously, even if it’s just for twenty minutes,” Ray adds. “Seriously, I bet it’s the best sketch this month.”

Bob’s not feeling too bad. Of course it’s only lunch and everything can change in three hours. Usually by the end of the day he’s in pretty desperate need of a nap. But he wants to, and if things go for the worse, he can always leave. “Kay. I dunno how long I’ll last, but-”

“Oh whatever, we’re all a bunch of boring fucks anyway.” Frank gets a gleam in his eye that Bob is pretty sure will result in at least one of them kicking him. “Maybe you should invite Brendon.” Oh, his job then.

“That shit’s for real?”

Bob’s going to admit to it. It’s not like he kept it from Ray on purpose. Frank speaks first. “Yeah. He wants to have awesome sex with him. Or he wants to listen to funk. Can’t quite remember which.”

Mikey’s smirking again, and Ray looks confused, but Bob’s comment focuses on Frank. “Suck a dick.”

“I don’t do that shit, that’s you and Mikey.”

“While my brother never needs to have sex that I can sense in any way at all, everyone knows you’d suck Gerard’s dick.”

“Fuck off.”

“Everyone,” Mikey repeats with added emphasis.

***

Bob appreciates the way Ray pulls his car to the smoking doors nearest his last class rather than going to the pick up zone at the front doors, or staying in the student parking lot. It wouldn’t seem like much to the average person, but the added walk would pile another layer of fatigue onto his already weighted shoulders.

Really, his friends are pretty subtly awesome. He gets front seat without having to call shotgun. No one asks him if he’s sure about going because they trust him to say if he needs to bail. And he knows without asking that someone called his mom. He might be fucked for getting picked up later though. It’ll take explicit instructions in order to get her to the Ways, never mind that they’ve lived there since he and Mikey were in eighth grade.

Ray stands in front of him as they go down the stairs, Mikey behind. Stairs aren’t really an issue for him, the joints in his feet are pretty decent. But on the off chance that he tripped, going down the flight would probably be less painful than trying to clutch for the railing and putting his whole weight through his hands. Bob wouldn’t demand that they try to catch him, for as long as he’s worked with Akiro she’s taught him self-reliance. But it’s nice to know that they would. And Jepha and the rest probably would if he went down at school, even if they are supposedly ex-friends. Epic friendship ruining fights don’t automatically make people shitty and cruel.

What’s waiting on the coffee table is both hilarious and disturbing. Fucking Gerard. He’s actually painted a t-shirt with a miniature Bob, half a unicorn out the seat of his pants. The unicorn’s mouth is open with a techicolour spew, and the end of that arch has a pot of chocolate. It’s ridiculously detailed.

“Did you spend all afternoon making that?”

In the time that it takes him to ask, Frank has darted over, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and started pulling. He’s got it to mid-chest when Bob finishes saying _that_. “Arms up, dollface.”

Bob lets Frank strip him and put the new shirt on. Miraculously it’s even the right size. He can’t see the design as well looking down, but at least the paint is dry. Frank informs him cheerfully, “if you try to take it off I will _staple_ it to you.”

So Bob leaves the shirt on, and by the time he calls his mom to get picked up he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. His mom of course notices immediately. Before he’s even in his seat she asks. “What the fuck is on your shirt?”

“It's Gerard symbolism.”

Bob's mom laughs, because she knows Gerard. “Stand for anything specific?”

“Apparently it means some guy thinks I am everything awesome ever.”

“Couldn't it be a piñata of unicorns and chocolate then? Why does it have to be vomiting and crapping?” Bob shrugs and tells her to keep going straight for the next three lights. “You like the guy back.”

Bob shrugs. This isn’t his big coming out. That happened somewhere between telling Akiro he didn’t need instructions on how to get a girl off without using his hands, but a boy manual would be fine, and idiotically leaving he first porno he’d ever downloaded titled Liam’s Big Load in a matching folder rather than renaming it. Still, he doesn’t exactly want to discuss the depth of his crush. Not when Brendon will be in the car in fifteen hours.

She sees the truth under the shrug. “So you really like the guy back. I guess you haven't told the guys, because if Frank knew you'd already be dating.”

Her saying that makes Bob feel a little better. Sometimes it feels like she knows him too well, but at least she doesn't completely understand his friends. Frank might be a dick, but he's Bob's dick. And okay, that came out wrong, in his head. But Frank only bothers Bob in ways that he knows are okay to bother Bob. His mom just sees him bugging about everything ever. Relationships she can’t understand are part of what makes him his own person.

***

Math with Mikey is definitely Bob’s least favourite class. There’s just nothing interesting about the subject matter, and while occasionally a good teacher can revive a dead subject, Mrs Toronto has made it beyond obvious that she doesn’t give a flying shit about the subject matter. Thankfully she doesn’t give a shit about people talking either, as long as it’s not a pop quiz. So at least Bob has Mikey to help prevent him from lapsing into a coma.

Sometimes there are other excitements. Not frequently, but on occasion. One is Mr Mann, the non-AP math teacher. At least once every two weeks he comes in and criticizes her teaching method. Students in his class say she does the same during her spare. Bob thinks one day they’re going to get out the slapping gloves and have a duel. Mikey thinks one day they’re going to break the chalkboard with the force of their wall sex, kind of like that one episode of Buffy.

Today’s excitement is some guy with a beard coming up to their table once Mrs Toronto is back at her desk. Hands on his hips, he’s clearly pretty pissed off. Bob looks at Mikey. It wouldn’t be the first time Mikey hooked up with someone single, only for that guy’s boyfriend to dispute the relationship status.

“Seriously, could you not be a flirt? It's fucking killing me.”

Impossibly, the words are being directed at him. Bob has never seen this guy in his life, never mind flirted with him. So he stays quiet, because what else do you do around a crazy guy? He’d rather not get shanked or something.

“Do you just not know what you're doing? Because Ryan could give you, like, active instruction on how to suck his cock. Or hell, ask Mikey!” He breaks position to gesture. “I think between him and Ryan they've got the whole school covered.”

“I'm not sucking Ryan's cock.” He might not know what this sudden rant is about, or how long it’s gonna last until Mrs Toronto has to stop pretending to not notice and send him back to his desk, but he knows he’s not going to get with Ryan. Ryan is not his type. Ryan wears scarves. Bob has lines, okay.

“Cocktease and dumbass. Brendon picked a fucking winner. Fucking suck Brendon's dick already, Jesus. I'm so fucking done with this shit.” With that closing statement he just walks away, leaving Bob stunned and Mikey snickering.

Because Mikey is a douchebag, he practically sprints from math to ancient civilizations. By the time Bob gets there, Frank and Ray already know. Whomever said that girls were gossips vastly underestimated half the population’s need for information. The next forty five minutes is a dating advice call-in program masqueraded as a class about Eypgt and Aztecs and Vikings. It culminates in Ray literally pushing him in Brendon’s direction when Bob stands up at the end of class. Which is freakin’ stupid, considering he already has to go to Brendon to get his notes.

“You know your friends really want you to get laid.” Bob thinks he’s being pretty discreet, holding back the _with me_. It’s barely even implied in the sentence.

Brendon grins. “Well, Ryan thinks being a virgin is unnatural. And Spencer is probably sick of me crushing on people. Did one of them say something to you?”

“You're not pissed that they outed you?” Everyone already knows that he’s gay, Bob’s never seen a need to hide it. But if for some reason he had stayed closeted, he'd be fucking pissed if Mikey or Frank were the reason others suddenly knew.

Brendon makes the move Bob has come to think of as the _my parents are massive douchebags but for some reason I won’t call them out_ shrug. “You can't get much worse of an outing than with my parents. The worst you can do is not give me a ride, and then I'll just sabotage your notes. You can't call me disgusting, or say that I'm a pervert in the eyes of our God, or give me fifteen minutes to get out of our house.”

Yep, definitely the _his parents are douches_ shrug.

“You bring my mom frozen smoothie popsicle things every morning. I'm pretty sure if I didn't want to be driven with you she'd pick you up and leave me at the house.” Bob coughs and shoves his binder at Brendon so he can put the notes in. Then, because his friends are assholes and if he turned around he knows he’d see them all staring at him, he continues. “My friends think we should get together too.”

It’s with a smirk that Brendon replies. “Actually, Ryan and Spencer mostly just want me to have sex.”

“Trust me, I don’t think Mikey would be opposite. What do you say we bow to peer pressure?” That was surprisingly difficult to say. If Brendon says no, the guys are going to have to get over whatever the fuck happened, so they can invite Bert and Quinn for a kickball game. He’ll need it.

“The sex part or the dating part?”

Thank fuck, it’s not an outright no. Hell, Brendon is still smiling. A straight guy wouldn’t be smiling at this point, not even one as nice as Brendon. It’s encouragement enough for Bob. “I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to be romantic and say whatever you want but mostly dude? I’m really hoping for both.”

“Both sounds good.”

Thank **fuck**.

“So, I guess. Uh. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” If his own grin is anything like Brendon’s, his mom will know before he even climbs in the car.

“You have the energy to come inside and you’ll even get a good morning make out.” Brendon answers. Bob vows that even if he crumples in a heap at the bottom of the stairs on the way back to the car, he will have the energy to go up them.

Bob turns to get his backpack. Ray’s holding it for him. Ray, who is about two feet behind him, along with Frank and Mikey. They’re all grinning. “Jesus fucking Christ you guys.”

“You didn’t get your first kiss,” Frank answers in a non-sequitor.

“I’m not having my first kiss while my friends and my teacher are watching.” He shouldn’t have to explain that, except of course he does, because they’re them.

“Hudson’s gone. He always bolts at three thirty.”

“And it’s not like we’re gonna jerk off to you having your tongue down his throat.”

Before Bob can wish Mikey into eternal hellfire, Brendon bursts out laughing. “Wow, you’re like Bob’s Ryan. It’s great.” And then he darts forward and presses a chaste kiss to Bob’s half open mouth. “See you tomorrow.”

Bob watches Brendon leave, mouth still gaping. Ray is snickering, but it’s Frank that says the inevitable. “Wow, you’re a shitty kisser.”

He could make a comment about kicking him in the nuts, but might as well go for the jugular. “Why don’t you demonstrate how it’s done on Gerard. Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Fucking asshole friends.

***

Bob finds out the news from Mikey first. Frank’s apparently at the Ways, jumping up and down on Gerard’s shitty bed. He hasn’t called anyone, that duty left up to Mikey and James and the rest of Frank’s band. Bob is thrilled for him, but he’s thrilled for himself too. It’s the perfect opportunity.

Since they started going out last week, Bob’s gone upstairs to meet Brendon each morning. There’s never time for it to turn into sex, not with his mom waiting in the car. And Brendon works every day after school, and by the time his shift is done Bob’s constant fatigue has him already passed out. But Bob doesn’t need a morning handjob to want to be with Brendon. Or blowjobs or frottage, rather, since those are reciprocal. He’s just happy talking to him and having quick make-outs.

Besides, Brendon eats lunch with them now, and after what looked like an intense five minute conversation Ryan and Spencer followed. Watching Frank get shut down constantly by Spencer is almost as funny as Ryan and Mikey comparing and contrasting guys and the occasional girl, and trying to remember who had the nice hands two weeks ago. It’s as good as having Gerard and Brandon and Jepha and the rest was last year, just in a different way.

“So Frank, you know he’s in a band, right?” Bob starts after pulling away from the first kiss. Brendon is up and dressed, was before he kicked lightly at the door, but his mouth is still stale with morning breath. It’s not gross enough to refuse a second kiss, but if he talks while Brendon brushes his teeth that’ll be even better.

“Yeah? Kind of hard to miss, he has Leathermouth written on his arm in Sharpie.”

“Well, they won a spot playing on Friday. I’m going, do you wanna go? I mean I’d invite you even if we weren’t dating. But it could be a date. Our first date.”

“Does that mean you’ll treat me and buy me flowers?”

Fuck. He should have asked Mikey protocol. Maybe Brendon’s being a dick because gay guys don’t do dates. It’s not like he knows. This isn’t just his first with Brendon, it’s his first completely. But he’s sure Mikey goes on dates. Even though they end in sex and Mikey only sees the person again weeks later when he cycles back to them there’s still hanging out or a movie or event of some kind. Well, when in doubt go with a classic. “Fuck off.”

Brendon at least hears the tone, knows it’s an unhappy fuck off, not a lighthearted one. “I’m sorry. I didn’t. I. Yeah, I want to go with you. I would like to go on a concert date, Bob Bryar. And I’m not telling you to, but flowers would add colour. You know I’m not allowed to paint.”

Bob’s not entirely sure why not. It’s not like a coat of paint, even an obnoxious colour, could make the apartment any shittier than it is. He’s also not sure what the sudden rudeness was about -all the more unsettling because he’s never had it from Brendon before-, or what the stammered half sentences had in them. But he doesn’t really want to talk feelings, and he doubts Brendon does either. They’re guys. “Hurry up, or my mom will give us crap for having sex.”

Waiting for it to be Friday sucks for a cornucopia of reasons -thanks, SATs for cramming a ton of stupid synonyms in his head- ranging from worrying that he might get sick before then to dealing with how Frank spirals from joy fueled hyperactivity to petrified fueled irritability once every half hour. The worst though, is trying to make sure he’s keeping the right promises for each participant. His mom wants to know he’s going to be safe, Frank wants to make sure he’s going to be enthusiastic, Mikey wants to make sure he’s supportive even though the band might actually suck, Brendon wants a nice first date. Bob thinks he can handle all but his mom’s.

From what Bob’s seen, life choices seem to split into four categories. There are things you should do that you don’t. For Bob that’s stuff like finishing all his homework. There are things that you should that you do. In that category falls the exercises he’s supposed to attempt outside of OT. There are things you shouldn’t that you don’t. For example, Bob doesn’t smoke crack cocaine. But then there’s the last category, the reason the world is going to Hell. People are constantly doing things they’re well aware they shouldn’t.

On the top of Bob’s ‘Don’t, You Moron’ list is standing in the moshpit. He shouldn’t because of the possibility of agony if anyone crashes into his hands. He gets ugly glares when he can’t support surfers, like he’s somehow bringing down the whole crowd. His immune system is fucked, so being smeared with other people’s bodily fluids is a lot worse for him than for Ray or Mikey. And the frequent low grade fever means getting overheated and dehydrated in a pit is bad idea.

Technically there’s no reason he should have to wade in. Just by paying his ticket and showing up he’s supporting, showing enthusiasm. He can do it just as well for Leathermouth -or any other band- from the edge of the club. But no matter what he promises his mom, every time he goes to a concert he ends up in the thick of people.

It’s the feel of it, really. It’s not like Bob doesn’t enjoy downloaded music. It sounds good on the computer, and it sounds better when he’s wearing his massive padded headphones that pick up details his shitty computer speakers don’t. His iPod is a thing of beauty, a hundred and sixty GB and three quarters full. Thank fuck for touch sensitive equipment. CDs were a bitch, and he’s a bit young for it, but cassettes probably would have been worse. Concerts are a-whole-nother kind of listening. When you’re in the front row, the singer bellowing into the microphone and you can’t hear a word, and can only tell what the song is if you like the band and recognise the drum beat or guitar rhythm, it’s different. Standing back or sitting down is like listening with only one headphone.

It’s probably not actually a good date. They can’t talk, Bob can’t even hear himself shouting Frank’s name. There’s nothing to share a laugh about, unless Frank’s obvious sheer joy counts. And any touching is strictly accidental, and enforced by people pressing in on them on all sides. But Brendon is smiling, when the crowds stumbles enough that Bob can catch a glimpse of the teen in front of him. That makes it good enough.

There’s a lull between Leathermouth finishing and the next band setting up their stuff. A lot of the crowd wanders away for a drink or a smoke or to take a piss. Bob stays where he is, with the others, confident that Frank will come find them.

Sure enough, Frank barrels towards him from seemingly out of nowhere. Bob barely has the time to plant his feet before Frank headbutts him in the stomach, then rapidly turns to punching Mikey in the shoulder and tugging on a lock of Gerard’s hair. He culminates in climbing up Ray, a forced piggyback ride. “You have to come over to Rob’s. He doesn’t have anyone there except his brother, the party’s gonna be great!”

The others are down for it, and Bob’s about to agree too. Miraculously, he’s not entirely spent yet. Even an hour of celebrating Leathermouth’s triumphant start would make him a good friend. Except there’s Brendon, who has to work every day to keep food in his stomach and an walls -however shitty- around him. “What time to do you start tomorrow morning?” It’s already almost eleven, if he works pre open doors he’ll only have a few hours to sleep if Bob drags him out with him.

“I close.”

“Wait. You don’t work til four?”

“Five. It’s six hour shift.” Brendon doesn’t look like he’s lying. He’s smiling, not a shifty bone in his face. There’s not really a reason to lie about a scheduled shift anyway. If it’s the truth, Bob’s not about to waste the opportunity.

“Sorry Frank. Me and Brendon need to go back to his apartment.”

Frank smirks, perched high on Ray. “You have a condom? I know you’re a virgin, but Brendon knows Ryan.”

Bob’s pretty spry, raising his leg lets him kick Frank hard in the hip. Unfortunately the question still hovers in the air. It’s obvious what he wants, and he’s pretty sure Brendon wants it too, but when Frank says it out like that it makes it seem bad. Cold and calculated instead of hot with passion. Bob doesn’t know what to say to make it better. Thankfully Brendon comes back with “and you know Mikey. When’d you lose your virginity to him?”

Just like that, everything is fixed. It’s impossible to miss the way Frank automatically looks at Gerard before looking away, Ray only misses by virtue of not being able to see Frank on his back. Bob could say something, but he doesn’t feel like being a dick back, especially when Frank probably didn’t mean to be a jerk. Instead Bob laughs and slides his lips onto Brendon’s. An unprompted comment like that deserves a reward.

It takes twenty minutes for the bus to come, and another twenty to get near Brendon’s apartment. If he’d stayed with the guys he’d probably be swilling cheap beer by now. Pressing against Brendon, ass slowly going numb in a round molded metal seat is better. Brendon holds their transfers, and Bob always thought only tools make out on public transport, but it’s hard to stop himself. Brendon looks good in the blue light of the LED strips on the roof of the bus, hair tousled and matted from the pit. In a perfect world Bob would grab him by it, and hold him in place while they kissed.

Bob toes the door open with a slight shudder. He understands that Brendon can’t complain to the landlord, but the idea that anyone with a strong shoulder could push their way in creeps him out. Maybe he can get Mr Iero to install a better lock. That’s an issue for later though. There are more important things at hand now.

“Do you. Uh. Do you want to fuck me or be fucked?” In porn it’s topping and bottoming, but he doesn’t think he can say that.

“I was thinking we could not fuck?”

“Oh.” Well, what the fuck? They have a rare opportunity, and Brendon doesn’t want to? It just seems wrong. He doesn’t want to pressure him, but maybe if they start making out and he can get Brendon hard things will roll from there.

“I mean, I don’t mean not doing anything. But just not fucking?” Brendon’s face flushes but he continues valiantly. “I mean, it’s kind of everything at once and we haven’t had the little bits, and I-”

Bob can’t let him go on. In a perfect world he’d tackle Brendon to the bed, and they’d blow each other and come on each other’s faces just like the best porn downloads he has. In this world if he tackles Brendon his palms will hit the mattress, half his weight will channel into his arms, and he will vomit from the pain. Vomit isn’t sexy. Unless you’re watching specialty porn because you’re into it. But that’s not him and it’s probably not Brendon. So instead he opens the velcro on his jeans and shakes his hips until they fall down to his ankles. He keeps his shirt on because it’s easier that way, and because Brendon is still fully dressed.

He lies on Brendon’s bed, unsurprised he’s yet another guy with a shitty mattress. This one though, he’ll have to get used to. Hopefully. “I can’t jerk you off. But if you lie on top of me we can still get each other off.”

It doesn’t make sense that Brendon turns away to slide off his jeans and underwear off, but Bob’s not complaining about an opportunity to see naked ass. Brendon’s looks like it comes straight from a porno. When he turns back to face the bed and he’s hard the comparison only gets stronger.

Brendon climbs on top of him and for a moment it’s awkward trying to figure out where his limbs should go. But when they get it, when Brendon presses down lightly, experimentally, it’s brilliant. Pushing up against Brendon is nothing like his pillow. Brendon’s body is hard, and his dick is hard and making wet smears against his boxers. At least until Brendon sneaks a hand between them and tugs them down until they’re skin to skin.

It gets even better then. Bob wants to be kissing Brendon, but all he can manage is breathing heavily against his cheek. His entire body is heating up, fire sparking wherever Brendon’s touching him. He’s sweating, he wants to rub his forehead but can’t imagine for a second moving his arm from Brendon’s back, carefully angled so the constant movement doesn’t bump him too hard for it to be bearable. So’s Brendon, hair replastered to his forehead, wet pooling at the curve of his spine. His shirt’s probably damp for the second time tonight. By the time he’s ready to go home it’s gonna crunch when he moves.

Brendon comes first. It’s not Bob trying to be gentlemanly and making his partner go first, Brendon’s hips just stutter before he mashes his mouth against Bob’s chin. He can feel the indent of his teeth and he wants to laugh, but then there’s warmth on his stomach where his shirt’s rucked up and nothing’s funny anymore. Brendon just _came on him_.

“Holy fuck.” As far as words in bed go, they’re not exactly I Love You. But Brendon fucking came on him. Bob’s been getting off to comeshots for four years, he thinks he can be forgiven for not giving a soliloquy.

He bites on his lower lip and grinds up at Brendon a few more times. Bob can feel him grimacing, probably post orgasm sensitive, but he takes it without complaining, and it only takes a second or two more before he’s coming between them. “Fuck.”

Brendon rolls off him. There’s not much room on the twin mattress, he ends up on the floor. In five minutes Bob will care. Right now he needs to catch his breath, and not freak out about having sex for the first time.

“I came on your shirt a bit. Sorry.” Brendon offers after a minute.

“Really not something you need to apologise for.” He doesn’t exactly want to get into his kink list, but maybe if he keeps coming on Brendon he’ll understand.

“You wanna sleep here, or. Uh. There’s a payphone down the street, I can call your mom for you?”

Bob shakes his head, but in case Brendon can’t see it he says “Rather stay. I’ll move over, there’ll probably be room for both of us. You need a post jerk off nap, or you wanna make out for a bit?” He’s hoping for the second, but would understand the first. At sleepovers Gerard always falls asleep thirty seconds after he wipes his hand on the roll of toilet paper.

Brendon doesn’t answer, just rolls onto his side to kiss Bob’s face. He smells like sweat and spunk. It’s fucking awesome.

The truth of JRA is he’ll end up spending almost all of Saturday in bed. The next week if he caught something from some lone sneezer in the crowd. But forcing himself to stay awake now is worth it. Sometimes you have to focus on the present and ignore the future. And no matter how pained and fatigued he’ll be tomorrow, in this instant he has Brendon, the boy who loves him.


End file.
